Gold
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Cowboy builders, bolshy co-workers, Terrible Twos and imminent birth - Molly really has her hands full! This is the worst possible time for Sherlock to be away from home and under-cover. But the client was an old friend of the family. And, anyway, the case was barely a 4. He could wrap this up in a couple of days...couldn't he? *POSSIBLE SPOILERS FOR OTHER STORIES IN THE SERIES*
1. Gold - Prologue

**No one pays me to do this - I mean, who would! I do it for love.**

**Gold**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

Molly Hooper-Holmes awoke in the darkened room and lay still, listening to the night time sounds of the house, recalling fragments of a rather disturbing dream and wondering if it was the dream that had awoken her.

She had gone to bed early, not long after William and Freddie, following a particularly tiring day at work. In the final month of her pregnancy, it seemed like she'd been pregnant for ever but that was always the case, when it came to the last few weeks. She just wanted to get on with it, now, and was rather glad that this was her last week at work, prior to her confinement.

For the last month, her boss had restricted her to sitting-down duties and she had also been given the honour of inducting her maternity leave replacement. That involved a lot of explaining of things which, to her, were second nature and consequently difficult to put into words. It didn't help that her cover – Amanda – fresh out of Medical School and wet behind the ears, thought she knew everything. Molly had lost count of the number of times over the preceding week she had been obliged to remind the newbie that every establishment had its own protocols, customs and practices. Didn't they teach them that at university any more, she wondered?

The final remnants of her dream had faded completely, now, leaving her with just a latent sense of unease as her attention was taken by the dull ache in her lower back. She'd had that pain all the previous day, accompanied by a rather high incidence of Braxton-Hicks and Olga, she had noted, had been unusually passive. Maybe the little one was gathering her strength for the final push, in roughly three weeks' time or maybe she was just so cramped in there that she found movement difficult. It must be a pretty tight fit, Molly mused.

Her mind then moved on to wonder what had roused her from sleep at this ungodly hour. She assumed the hour was ungodly but she reached out for her mobile phone, on the night stand, to verify that assumption and confirmed that it was just after three a.m. Positively satanic. That movement also confirmed her prime suspect for the cause of her wakefulness. Her bladder was in serious need of emptying.

Tempting though it was to snuggle down under the duvet and delay her trip to the bathroom, she knew that the possible consequences could be embarrassing, to say the least, so she rolled over and sat up, awkwardly, placing her feet on the bedroom floor and pushing herself upright with a hand on the bedside table.

It was then that she felt the gush of liquid down the insides of her legs.

'Oh, bugger! I've wet myself!' she thought aloud.

Even as she spoke, she realised that the pressure in her bladder was not the least bit reduced and the truth dawned. Her waters had broken.

Molly waddled into the en suite bathroom and sat on the toilet to pee and to gather her wits. That was when she felt her abdominal region begin to tense as her womb contracted. This was no Braxton-Hicks. This was the real thing.

Having relieved her bladder, she grabbed a hand towel from the heated towel rail, folded it into a wad and jammed it between her legs, to catch the dregs of the amniotic fluid as it drained away, then she waddled back into the bedroom, turned on the bedside lamp and picked up her mobile, again.

She speed dialled the number of her midwife, Helen. It rang several times – which was unsurprising, in view of the hour – but was eventually answered by the lady in question in a voice heavy with sleep.

'Hello, Molly. How can I help you?' the midwife asked.

'My waters have broken and I think I'm in labour,' Molly replied, as calmly as she could manage.

Helen's response was both reassuring and business-like.

'Well, Molly, if you think you are, a woman of your experience, I expect you're right. How frequent are the contractions?'

'About every fifteen minutes, I think. I haven't really timed them but that's my estimate. I had lower back pain all day yesterday but didn't pay it much attention. I think I might have been in labour even then.'

As she spoke, she could hear Helen moving around, probably getting dressed, then she heard the jangle of keys and surmised that the midwife was picking up her car keys.

'OK. Tell Sherlock he can start to put up the birthing pool. I'll be there in about twenty minutes,' Helen advised.

'Sherlock's not here,' Molly exclaimed. 'He's on a case, working away.'

Helen paused, with her hand on the front door knob, in her house.

'Working away where?' she asked.

'Lambourn, in Berkshire.'

'Oh, that's quite a way away, isn't it. Does he know about the situation?'

'No, I haven't called him yet. I called you first. I'm going to ring him now.'

'OK, you do that. I'm on my way. And, Molly?'

'Yes?'

'You're an old hand at this. You're going to be fine,' Helen assured her, detecting the slight note of apprehension in the other woman's voice.

As Helen cut the connection, Molly scrolled back though her Contacts List and pressed Sherlock's name. There was a short pause, as the connection was established, then the phone began to ring.

It rang and rang, nine times, then cut to the generic voicemail message. Molly broke the connection and gave the phone in her hand a puzzled look. Maybe it was a wrong number. She tried again. This time, it rang just four times then went to voicemail.

'Sherlock, when you get this message, ring me back. Olga is defecting to the West.'

She cut the line again. She couldn't imagine why he wasn't answering his phone, even if it was the middle of the night but, right now, she had more urgent things on her mind. Since she was somewhat incommoded, someone needed to be here for the boys. She scrolled down again, found Mrs Hudson's number and dialled.

'Please be at home, please be at home,' she muttered under her breath, as she listened to the phone ringing out inside 221 Baker Street.

ooOoo

**Sorry this has taken so long and many thanks for your patience, my lovely readers. I do so hope it is worth the wait!**


	2. Gold Chapter 1

**Nobody pays me to do this and I own nothing but my original ideas, characters and plots.**

**Chapter One**

Sitting at the kitchen table, in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock heard the faint rattle of the front door bell, on the wall of the landing, just above the kitchen door. He had removed the metal dome of the ancient contraption and just left the hammer which, in the absence of anything to ring against, simply vibrated in its socket. It was a noise he could ignore or answer, as was his wont. On this occasion, he chose to respond.

Standing up from the table, where he had been examining some slides he had made of cultures he had been growing on the bathroom window sill, he left the kitchen and trotted down the stairs to the front door. The door to 221A, his landlady's flat, was closed but he could hear the faint sounds of a late afternoon TV quiz show, leaking out from inside. Mrs H loved her daytime telly.

Sherlock opened the inner and then the outer door to the street and looked at the face of the man on the step.

'Oh, it's you,' he said, rather unnecessarily, then turned and walked back inside and up the stairs, leaving his guest to close the doors and follow him back to his lair. Once upstairs, Sherlock walked into his sitting room and sat in his favourite chair, placing his hands on the arms and fixing his visitor with a bored stare.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Lovely to see you, too,' his brother replied, acerbically.

'Is this a social call?'

'Partly, yes. I've hardly seen or heard from you since the wedding. Please tell me you're not still sulking over the house.'

'So what is the unsocial part?' Sherlock asked, ignoring the implied question.

'Sherlock, I thought we had reached an understanding.'

'So did I, Mycroft, but it would seem that my understanding was somewhat different to your own.'

Sherlock fixed his brother with an accusing glare.

'You used my family against me in order to satisfy your obsessive compulsion to control my life. And you are surprised that I object?'

'You always assume I have a hidden agenda. Why can't you just accept that I simply wanted to give you a gift?'

'Because I know you too well,' Sherlock snapped, jumping to his feet, to eyeball his brother. 'Now get to the point of why you're here or leave me in peace! Some of us have work to do.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and frowned in frustration at his younger brother then, with a huff of impatience, cut to the chase.

'I have a request to make – a case I'd like you to consider.'

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, his curiosity warring with his resentment.

'What sort of case?'

'May I sit down?' Mycroft asked.

Holmes Minor considered this request, momentarily, then, with a sigh of resignation, sat down, giving tacit permission for his brother to do likewise, which he did, sitting in the chair opposite – John's chair, as it was known to all – and leaning his umbrella against the fire place.

'I would like you to consider taking this case as a personal favour,' Mycroft began.

'A favour to you?' Sherlock exclaimed, with a bark of ironic laughter.

'Actually, no, not to me. To the Marquis of Hadfield,' Mycroft replied.

Sherlock greeted this pronouncement with a shrug and a blank expression.

'If that is supposed to mean something, I fear I must disabuse you of that belief. You are the one who knows Burke's Peerage inside out and back to front, brother dear, not I.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes impatiently but explained further,

'Edward Dunham.'

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, feigning intense concentration, then shook his head, saying,

'No, sorry, you've still lost me.'

'Your god father, Sherlock!' his sibling growled.

The younger Holmes then looked genuinely surprised.

'Really? I have a god father? How come I've never heard of him?' he exclaimed.

'You have heard of him. He was British High Commissioner in New Delhi, when you were at school, but he used to write to you.'

'Nobody wrote to me when I was at school, Mycroft. Trust me, if he had, it would be so remarkable that I would have remembered.'

'He sent you a birthday card every year. Surely you remember that?'

Sherlock, adopting the facial expression of a miscreant school boy, replied,

'I never read my birthday cards, Mycroft. I just used to shake them, to see if any money fell out, then they went straight into the bin.'

This was not actually true. Young Sherlock had always been so amazed that people actually bothered to send him birthday cards that he would always check to see who had and, as instructed by his mother, he always wrote polite 'thank you' letters to those who did. But he still could not place Edward Dunham, Marquis of Hadfield and former British High Commissioner in India.

'Well, anyway, dear brother, whether you remember him is immaterial. The point is he remembers you, and he has specifically requested that you investigate the situation in which he currently finds himself.'

'Which is?'

'I think he should explain that himself,' Mycroft replied, 'to which end, I would like to bring him to see you tomorrow.'

Sherlock had to admit he was curious to meet this god father of whom he had no memory but he didn't wish to appear too eager.

'Well, I am rather busy at the moment.'

'No, you are not.'

'How would you know?'

'You wouldn't be sitting here examining bathroom mould spores if you were busy.'

'That's for a case.'

'No, it isn't.'

Sherlock knew he could never fool Mycroft, when it came to deduction. He pursed his lips and admitted defeat.

'Oh, alright, I'll listen to what he has to say but I'm not making any promises.'

Mycroft nodded his thanks and rose to leave.

'How are Molly and the children?' he enquired, casually.

'You know how they are. You speak to Molly at least twice a week. She keeps you well informed about every aspect of our family life,' Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft shook his head, disheartened by his younger brother's persistent antagonism, then took his leave and departed.

Sherlock remained in his chair, steepling his fingers and musing about this proposition his brother had placed before him. He would appreciate a nice juicy case, just now, since business was a little slow at the moment. He hoped he wouldn't be disappointed.

ooOoo

Molly turned into the crescent, on her way home from work, pushing her youngest child, Freddie, in the baby buggy. As she approached the gateway to the building where the Hooper-Holmes family currently resided, her eyes were drawn to the house a few doors down, where scaffolding, a dirty yellow skip and a builder's van bore testament to the refurbishment going on within.

Despite Sherlock's adverse reaction to his brother, Mycroft's, generous wedding gift of the house, her husband had eventually relented, accepted the situation, ungracefully, and signed the deeds which sealed the deal. Firs Lodge – as the building was historically named, notwithstanding the fact that there was no longer a single fir tree within its environs – became officially the property of newly-weds, Mr and Mrs Sherlock Holmes, and the planned refurbishment could begin.

There was a rather tight schedule for the work, due to the advanced stage of Molly's pregnancy. Her third baby was due in early April and the family was hoping to be installed in the new house in time for the happy event. This had been explained to all the builders who had tendered for the job and Mr Tillotson – who came highly recommended by several former customers – had assured Sherlock and Molly that his company could complete on schedule and on budget. There was, after all, no major structural work involved.

And the work certainly had proceeded apace, in the early days - the stripping out stage - and a schedule of eight weeks for the building work and two weeks for decorating meant that the house should be ready for occupation after ten weeks – just at the end of March. Perfect timing.

Unfortunately, Molly's confidence in the man's competency had been damaged when she came home one day to find five of the eight original internal doors dumped in the skip and the other three having been pressed into service as ramps for the workmen's wheelbarrows.

She had challenged Mr Tillotson, immediately, reminding him that the doors were to be sent for dipping, to remove all the layers of paint, then reused. Mr T – as he liked to be addressed – had done a very convincing face-palm, apologised for the error and ordered his labourers to rescue the doors. But the damage was already done. Molly no longer trusted the man.

It had become her custom and practise to call at the house each evening, on her way home from work, to inspect the day's progress and to check in with the builder, just to make sure there were no more 'misunderstandings' but today had been a particularly tiring one and all she wanted to do right now was to put her feet up and have a nice cup of tea. Missing one day wouldn't hurt, and she could have a really good look around the house tomorrow, couldn't she? As she came to the path to their current home, she turned in there instead of continuing on and pushed the buggy up to the front door.

'See new house, Mummy?' Freddie reminded her.

'Not today, sweetie. Mummy's a bit tired.'

'Yes, today, Mummy!' Freddie replied, with a note of urgency in his voice.

'We'll go and see it tomorrow, maybe with Daddy,' Molly replied, stopping in front of the communal entrance to the building and reaching up to tap the entry code into the key pad.

'Noooo! See house NOW!' Freddie insisted, in strident tones.

Molly looked at her youngest child with mild surprise.

'It's not that urgent, babe, really. Tomorrow will be fine,' she assured him.

'Me want to go NOW!' Freddie screeched, balling his fists and screwing up his eyes, his face turning puce.

'Freddie, whatever is the matter with you?' Molly asked, bending down to speak to the little boy on his eye level.

'Freddie want to see the house, now, Mummy, not tomorrow,' he demanded, tears beginning to pool in his eyes and trickle down his chubby cheeks, as he stamped his foot on the buggy foot rest.

Molly stared uncomprehendingly at the child's bright red face and reached out, to check his forehead for fever. It was the only explanation she could think of for this wholly uncharacteristic behaviour. But, before she could touch his skin, he batted her hand away and raised his voice in a loud scream. This took her aback but also galvanised her into action. Standing upright, she tapped in the door code and pushed the buggy into the communal hallway.

By the time she had crossed the hall and opened the door to the family flat, Freddie's outburst had escalated to a full-blown tantrum and he was screaming and kicking fit to burst, arching his spine, straining against the safety harness that secured him in the buggy. This was not the first time, recently, that the little chap had reacted badly to a situation that didn't quite go his way but it was certainly the most extreme reaction so far.

'Oh, my goodness!' Molly thought to herself, as the realisation dawned. Freddie had hit the Terrible Twos. Their life was about to get a lot more complicated.

ooOoo


	3. Gold Chapter 2

**No one gives me money for this - just kind words of encouragement, which are worth more than Gold!**

**Chapter Two**

Once inside the flat, with the front door closed, Molly knelt down next to Freddie and tried to calm him.

'Freddie, sweet heart, this is silly, getting upset like this. Shush, darling,' she soothed, reaching out to stroke his head, as she spoke. But the little boy was having none of it. He continued to squeal, angrily, and strain against his harness, shouting,

'No! No! Have it! Have it, now!'

Molly stood up and stepped back, wondering how to resolve this impasse, then noticed Marie standing in the archway to the sitting room, fixing Freddie with an analytical eye. She beckoned to Molly to come into the sitting room, where she turned and said,

'Just leave him for a minute, Molly. He's beyond reason at the moment. Let him get it out of his system.'

Molly was not happy about leaving him strapped into his buggy, clearly so upset. His confinement was only adding to his frustration. She went back into the hall, knelt in front of her screaming child and reached out, pressing the central button on the clasp to release him from the harness. At the sudden relaxation of the restraint, Freddie launched himself out of the buggy, cannoning into Molly, causing her to tip over backwards and sit down, heavily, on the parquet floor.

Oblivious to his mother's predicament, the enraged toddler ran to the front door and began to beat his fists on the unrelenting obstacle, venting his anger through an incoherent stream of protests, peppered with the occasional recognisable word – 'house', 'now' and 'mummy'.

Marie ran to Molly's aid.

'Are you OK?' she asked, concerned both for her heavily pregnant employer and the baby she was carrying, since Freddie had inadvertently struck his mother right on her baby bump.

Molly sat on the floor, temporarily winded by both the blow that had knocked her over and the landing on the hard floor. She sat, for a moment, gathering her wits and getting her breath back, doing an internal scan of her body and deciding that everything was still alright.

'Yes, yes, I'm fine,' she replied, eventually, and allowed Marie to help her to her feet and take her into the sitting room, where she lowered herself into the arm chair.

Freddie was still banging on the front door and stamping his feet in frustration, completely beside himself. Marie glanced at William, sitting on the sofa, wearing an expression of shock and amazement, at the sudden and entirely unexpected outburst.

'Will, would you like to go to your room?' the nanny asked him.

'No, thank you. I'd like to watch the television,' he replied, with unerring honesty. 'Why is Freddie crying, Mummy?' he asked.

Molly sat back in the chair, feeling a little over-whelmed by the whole situation and still desperate for that cup of tea.

'He's just going through a phase,' she replied, by way of an explanation.

'Well, I wish he'd hurry up about it,' William declared. 'I can't hear what the man is saying.'

With that, he picked up the TV remote control and pressed the button that switched on the subtitles then turned back to the TV screen and refocused his attention on the action, purposefully filtering out the noise coming from his little brother in the hall.

Molly wished she could filter too, although the noises had begun to change in character. The screams of rage and frustration were gradually lapsing into wracking sobs and moans of self-pity. She looked at Marie, who made a mental assessment then nodded.

'Shall I get him?' the nanny asked.

Molly shook her head and, pushing herself up from the chair, she moved, gingerly, to the archway into the hall so that Freddie could see her. He was now lying in a heap on the floor by the door, his bright red face wet with tears and snot and his hair soaked in perspiration, looking very sorry for himself.

'Mummy!' he wailed, holding out his arms towards her, his shoulders heaving from the aftershock of his emotional meltdown. The catalyst for the outburst seemed to have been completely forgotten. All he wanted now was comfort.

'Poor baby,' Molly soothed, as she bent down to pick him up.

'No, Molly, let me help,' Marie exclaimed, moving past to reach down and lift Freddie to his feet. He did not resist but, once standing, he stumbled over to his mother and wrapped his arms around her legs, burying his snot and tear-stained face in her crotch. Molly stroked his head then guided him into the sitting room and eased herself down into the arm chair, where he climbed into her lap and rested against her chest, giving the occasional hiccupping sob.

'Cup of tea?' Marie suggested, brightly, and went off to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

ooOoo

By the time Sherlock arrived home, half an hour later, Freddie was back to his usual sunny self, sitting on the sofa with his big brother, watching cartoons. Molly was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the evening meal. Marie had offered to stay and help out but Molly had insisted she was fine. She was feeling a little shaken by the whole event but she rationalised that there was no harm done and she would just need to be more careful in the future.

'I suppose I was lucky with William. He had his moments but, as long as I stuck to his regular routine, he seemed to get over things quite quickly,' she explained to her husband, after bringing him up to speed about Freddie's little incident.

'But Marie says that Freddie's behaviour is age-appropriate and perfectly normal. And, to be fair, it was sort of my fault. I changed our routine without telling him in advance. I would never dream of doing that with William. But I don't think I'll make that mistake again.'

'Well, he seems fine now,' Sherlock observed, giving Molly a hug.

'Yes – for now,' she corrected, 'til next time.'

'Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself, when you fell over?' he enquired, solicitously.

'Only my pride,' she replied, with a grin, rubbing her belly and her lower back. 'Good job I'm well upholstered, at the moment.'

'And Olga?'

'She seems fine, too.'

After supper, Sherlock took the boys for their bath and then read to them – first The Gruffalo to Freddie, then The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to William, whilst Molly loaded the dishwasher and made the evening pot of tea. William wasn't the only one who liked order and predictability, and this had been Molly and Sherlock's routine ever since he and she had become 'an item'. There was something very homely and comforting about it, Molly thought.

When Sherlock finally appeared from the bedrooms, she was dozing on the sofa. He sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders as she leaned into his side.

'So, how was your day?' he enquired, solicitously.

'Well, apart from Fred-zilla, it was alright. Busy, though. But my maternity cover is starting soon, so that will be an extra pair of hands. They are taking her on early so I can train her up before I leave, show her the ropes. It will be nice to have another female around the place – although we'll only overlap for a short while.'

'Have you met this person?'

'No, not yet. She's called Amanda and she's newly qualified. With a bit of luck, that will mean she's keen to make a good impression so she will be really on the ball. And up to date with all the newest techniques, too. I might learn a thing or two from her.'

Sherlock gave her a look.

'Don't demean yourself, Molly. You are the best pathologist I have ever worked with and you always keep up to date with the latest research. She will need to be on top of her game to come anywhere near you.'

Molly smiled and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek.

'What was your day like?' she asked.

'Mycroft came to see me,' he replied.

'Oh, did he? I hope you were nice to him.'

'I was civil,' he conceded.

'Oh, Sherlock, that means you were rude to him! Honestly, why do you do that?' Molly scolded. 'You really are an ungrateful brat, you know!'

'Ungrateful? Yes, absolutely. I never asked him to give us the house. I was rather looking forward to providing a home for my own family, actually. So, rather than giving me a gift, I feel he's taken something from me. If that makes me a brat, then so be it.'

Molly could tell by the tension in his body that he was upset, but his tone of voice remained flippant. She put an arm around him and gave a little squeeze.

'I know you wanted to do it for us, babe, but I don't believe he upstaged you deliberately.' (Sherlock huffed.) 'He just wanted to give us something we really wanted and needed - and we do.' (He huffed again.) 'And it's done now. The house is ours and we're going to be very happy there.' (No huff.) 'So, do you think you could just let it go?'

She looked up at him, pleadingly. He was frowning, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, as he deliberated before responding. Then he gave her a sideways glance and morphed the frown into a begrudging smile.

'Only because _you_ asked me,' he clarified. 'You know I can deny you nothing.'

He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her upturned brow as she cuddled into his side.

'So, what did Mycroft have to say?' she asked, bringing the conversation back on track.

'He says he has a case for me,' Sherlock replied, with a hint of curiosity in his voice.

'Oh, what sort of case?' She could tell he was interested.

'He didn't say but…' he paused, as though considering his next statement.

'But?' she prompted.

Sherlock gave a little shrug.

'He says the client is my god father – someone I've never heard of.'

Molly returned a questioning look. Sherlock, she knew from experience, had a highly selective memory. Unlike most people, he seemed able to forget things at will – things he did not wish to remember. If he had 'deleted' this god father, it did not bode well.

'So, are you going to take it?'

'I said I'd hear the pitch. If the case is interesting, I'll take it, regardless of whether or not this Marquis of Hadfield person feels he has a personal connection to me.'

'And if it's not?'

'I'll go back to cataloguing my mould spores,' he replied, with a bright smile.

Molly leaned into him and winced at the dull ache in her lower back.

'Still sore?' he asked and she nodded, rubbing at her lumbar region.

He sat forward and turned towards her, taking both her hands in his.

'How about a warm bath and a bio oil massage?' he suggested.

'That sounds absolutely lovely,' she smiled back.

He stood up and pulled her to standing, then led her by the hand, down the short corridor to their bedroom, switching off the sitting room lights as he went.

ooOoo

**Many thanks to all my faithful readers for your faves, follows and reviews. I really appreciate all your support.**

**I'm off to my son and daughter-in-law's for Mother's Day Weekend, folks! So, I won't be doing any writing but no doubt I'll be doing lots of plotting!**


	4. Gold Chapter 3

**Don't own, just borrow.**

**I dedicate this chapter to the lovely Lucy36 for her birthday. So sorry its 3 days late, Lucy! But I hope you had a super-duper day.**

**Chapter Three**

At ten o'clock the next morning, Sherlock was at the kitchen table in 221B, peering into his microscope, feigning indifference to the case involving his godfather. In truth, his curiosity had been seriously piqued. However, when the doorbell rang, he was in no hurry to answer it but rose, languidly, from his chair and strolled down the stairs to the front door.

On opening the heavy Georgian portal, he was mildly surprised to find not one but three men standing on the pavement, none of them known to him. He gave each of their faces a quick scan then turned to the one on the right, and said,

'Lord Hadfield.'

The man smiled broadly, offered his hand and exclaimed,

'Sherlock, dear boy, you remembered me!'

'No, I Googled you,' Sherlock replied, dismissively ignoring the proffered hand.

He was lying, of course. He did remember him, now. One of his father's cronies that he had been expected to suck up to at so many tedious social events. The man had even visited him at school from time to time and taken him out to tea, boring him rigid with mindless chit-chat. No wonder he'd deleted him.

Sherlock turned to walk back up the stairs, addressing all three, over his shoulder.

'Last one in, please close the door.'

The visitors looked at one another, rather shocked by such blatantly rude behaviour, but Lord Hadfield gave a small shake of his head. He remembered how insolent the young Holmes boy could be and Mycroft had confirmed that his brother had not changed much in that department. The Marquis muttered an apology to his companions as he led the way into the house and up the stairs, following the retreating form of the Consulting Detective.

When the three men reached the sitting room, Sherlock was already sitting in his chrome and leather chair. He waved his hand, vaguely, inviting his visitors to sit on the sofa, which they did, side by side in a row, like miscreant Removes in the Housemaster's study.

Sherlock said,

'Tell me everything, in your own words but as quickly as possible, if you don't mind,' then steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, waiting for the men to explain why they were there.

It took them a moment or two to realise that was what he was doing but eventually the penny dropped and Lord Hadfield took the initiative.

'This is a rather delicate matter….'

'It usually is,' Sherlock interjected, causing the Marquis to purse his lips and huff a little but, when Sherlock said nothing more, he went on.

'As you are probably aware, I own a couple of race horses….'

'No,' Sherlock interrupted again.

'I beg your pardon?' his god father spluttered.

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed languidly at the man then replied, enunciating each word as though talking to an idiot,

'No, I did not know you owned two racehorses. I Googled you only to see what you looked like. I didn't bother reading any of it.'

He closed his eyes again and said, in a voice that dripped boredom,

'But it does at least begin to explain why you have brought a member of the Jockey Club and someone from the BHA with you. Is this something to do with a betting scam?'

The three men looked at one another, thoroughly disconcerted by the attitude of this strange young man but also intrigued by him.

'Your ties,' Sherlock drawled.

There was no response from the sofa, as the three men gave their host a look of sheer bewilderment.

'Oh, for God's sake,' Sherlock muttered, jumping to his feet and turning to glower at the client and his companions.

'Your ties,' he repeated, pointing at their neck ties. 'Yours is from the Jockey Club and yours is from the British Horseracing Authority.'

'And yours is from the Bullingdon Club,' he added, as an afterthought, to the Marquis. 'Now, can we cut to the chase, please? I have urgent work requiring my immediate attention.'

As he spoke, he gestured at the microscope and Petrie dishes on the kitchen table then plonked himself back down in the chair and resumed his thinking pose but kept his eyes open and boring into his god father.

The Marquis of Hadfield gritted his teeth and resumed his account.

'One of my horses is entered for the Chellingham Gold Cup – that's the feature race of the Chellingham Festival. It's the biggest race of the season, a bit like the cup final, if you will.'

Sherlock nodded and waved his hand,

'Yes, yes. Moving on.'

'Before Christmas, my horse was the ante post favourite for the race – 5/1 at most of the bookies. He was unbeaten all season, going like a train, couldn't put a foot wrong – a dead cert….'

'But then?'

'Well, just after Christmas, he lost his form. He just suddenly stopped winning. In fact, he just stopped running. He trailed in last at the big Boxing Day meeting at Kempton and the next race after that, he was pulled up after two fences. The jockey said he had no life in him. and every race since then, his performances have been dismal.'

'Perhaps he's ill,' Sherlock suggested, stating the obvious.

'We had him checked out after the Boxing Day debacle – blood tests, urine samples, scans, scoping, the works. Nothing. And, at home, he was – is – still as right as nine pence. On the gallops, there's no stopping him. He can outrun everything else in the yard by a distance. The horse is not ill.'

Sherlock was showing a little more interest now but only fractionally.

'Maybe he's just gone off racing. Some horse do, don't they? Decide it's not really their bag of oats any more?'

'Obviously, that is a possibility but he never shows any sign of distress on the race course. He doesn't sweat up or refuse to line up or miss the jump or any of the other things horses do when their hearts are just not in it. He's always full of beans, going down to the start, and jumps off like a good 'un but then, it's as if he's out for a nice little canter. He jumps his fences spot on but he just doesn't compete.'

'And the tests, they didn't show any banned substances?'

'Nothing from the urine samples or the bloods, either. We even sent some to France to be tested by their Jockey Club, for a second opinion. Totally clean.'

Sherlock was quite intrigued, now, but still did not see where he fit in.

'Well, this is all very interesting and I can see why, as his owner, you would be concerned about the horse but why would the Jockey Club or the BHA be involved?'

Here, the man wearing the BHA tie spoke up.

'There have been some unusual betting patterns around this horse and this race, recently. Despite the horse's lamentably lacklustre performances in recent outings, someone still believes he could win the Gold Cup. Some very large sums of money have been laid on this animal and none of them each way.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, as he processed the significance of this piece of evidence, then said,

'Can't you just suspend betting on the horse in this race, give all the money back and just let him compete for the prize money alone?'

All three men, in unison, gave an emphatic 'No!'

Sherlock looked at them, questioningly.

'Mr Holmes,' said the man from the Jockey Club, 'one cannot run a horse in a race under Jockey Club Rules and not allow anyone to bet on it. It's just not done.'

Sherlock didn't bother to ask 'Why not?' because he was not really that curious to know.

'Then why not scratch the horse, reform the book and let the race run without him?'

Lord Hadfield spoke vehemently in reply.

'Sherlock, I bought this horse three years ago, on the advice of my trainer, with this specific race in mind. For the past three years, his whole career has been aimed at this one particular renewal of this one particular race. This is the culmination of years of patient planning and preparation. This is his year. He is the right age, he has the perfect rating, which will guarantee he carries the optimum weight, and he is at the peak of his physical fitness. I can't just give up on all that. He must run in this race. He must be allowed to take his chances.'

Sherlock was rather bemused by the degree of passion with which his god father spoke on the subject. He couldn't really relate to that, in the context of a horse and a race, so he merely accepted it as fact and moved on.

'So, what do you expect me to do about it?' he asked, bluntly.

'We would like you to investigate,' Lord Hadfield replied.

'Investigate what? The unusual betting activity?'

'No, Mr Holmes,' said the BHA man, 'we have our own investigators looking at that side of things.'

'Then what?' Sherlock was beginning to lose patience.

'We want you to find out why the horse is running so badly when there doesn't seem to be a thing wrong with him,' the Marquis declared.

Sherlock sat forward and stared at the three men, trying to ascertain whether this was some elaborate joke.

'I'm not a vet,' he stated, at last.

'We've already seen a vet – lots of vets, in fact - some of the best equine vets in the country. They all drew a blank. This is not a physical thing,' his godfather replied.

'Then it strikes me you need a horse whisperer, not a Consulting Detective,' Sherlock said, bluntly.

'We have a horse whisperer, Sherlock. The lad who does the horse is such a person. He's been doing Gee ever since we bought him….'

'Gee?' Sherlock asked.

'Yes, that's the horse's stable name. All the animals have one. Their racing names are always such a mouthful so the lads and lasses give them stable names.'

'So what's his racing name?'

'Chateau d'Or,' Lord Hadfield replied. 'He's French bred. We bought him out of Chantilly, three years ago. He was an absolute bargain because he came with a terrible reputation…'

'For what?' Sherlock interrupted, again.

'The animal was a bit of a monster, right from the start. They couldn't even run him with the other mares and foals because he used to attack them – had to keep him and his dam in a separate paddock. Initially, he was intended for flat racing – that's what his bloodline suggested – but as an entire horse, he was completely unmanageable. He was an absolute bugger in the stable. Would bite you soon as look at you and lash out with all four feet at once. Positively evil. So they gelded him, to try and calm him down.'

'Did it?'

'To a degree but he was still a nightmare. He passed through several French yards but his temperament did not improve. He nearly killed one of his lads – pinned him in the corner of the box and tried to trample him.'

Sherlock could not help thinking he might have done the same, in the horse's place, having to deal with people like those in front of him.

'And you still bought him?' he said, instead.

'He came up in the Autumn Breeze Up sales…'

'What are those?'

The conversation so far had been peppered with racing jargon, some of which Sherlock understood, some he didn't but could fathom out and some that was utterly meaningless. This was one of the latter.

'At the Breeze Up sales, the horses don't walk round a sales ring, as in a normal bloodstock sale, they are ridden on a racecourse so the buyers can see how they run. You can tell a lot about a horse by the way it runs. The speed they are ridden at is called a 'Breeze'. It's a type of canter – hence Breeze Up. They _Breeze_ up the course.'

Sherlock acknowledged the Jockey Club man for his succinct explanation then looked to Lord Hadfield to continue his tale.

'My trainer saw something in him, thought he would make a Gold Cup horse, with the right training programme. He asked me if I would buy him. I have always wanted a Gold Cup prospect and I trusted his judgement so I bought in.'

'And gave him to the horse whisperer?' Sherlock prompted.

'Yes. My trainer said he had a lad who would be able to sort the horse out and he did. The animal is like putty in his hands.'

Sherlock was aware that stable staff formed close bonds with the horses they looked after so he was not entirely surprised to hear that the horse and his lad had bonded. Sometimes – as with humans – it was just a matter of finding the right person.

'So no more near death experiences?'

'Not for a long while. Gee is like an old sheep on the yard, now.'

'But also, it would seem, on the racecourse?'

'Yes, unfortunately.'

Sherlock could not deny that the case intrigued him. It was a bit like a locked room mystery. There seemed, on the face of it, to be no logical explanation. Those sorts of cases were his meat and drink.

'So, what exactly would you like me to do?' he asked.

'Would you come to the yard? Have a look round, spend some time there? The horse isn't producing the goods when it matters….'

'But someone is willing to lay a small fortune on the possibility that he will perform in the big race,' interjected Sherlock.

'I feel sure that you – the great Sherlock Holmes – would be able to work out how and why,' concluded his god father.

ooOoo

**Huge apologies to all my faithful readers for disappearing off the radar for a week there! RL still being a pain but nothing serious! I will reply to your lovely reviews, I promise. xxx**


	5. Gold Chapter 4

**Still only borrowing.**

**Chapter Four**

'He wants me to go there,' Sherlock told Molly. 'I told him it's out of the question.'

'Why?' she asked.

The couple were curled up on the sofa, in their sitting room, enjoying some down time now the boys were in bed. Molly rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder as he absent-mindedly stroked her baby bump, through the fabric of her clothing.

'I told him you are only a month away from giving birth.'

'But the race is the week after next, isn't it? Even if it takes you until then to solve the mystery, that still gives us two weeks' leeway.'

'I already solved the mystery. It's the horse whisperer, obviously.'

'Obviously, it's him, yes,' Molly agreed. 'But how is he doing it?'

'With his…..whispering,' Sherlock replied, with a vague wave of his hand.

'How does that work, though?'

'I have no idea,' he replied, wrinkling his brow.

'So how can you prove that it's him?' she asked.

'I can't go, Molly.'

'Why not? You know you want to.'

'No, I do not.'

'Yes, you do.'

'Are you trying to get rid of me?'

'No, of course not!' she exclaimed, sitting upright and turning to face him. 'But I know you want to take the case.'

He never could hide anything from Molly. He reached out to stroke her cheek.

'It is tempting,' he mused then shook his head, 'but I'm not leaving you to cope with everything that's going on at the moment.'

'Like what?'

'Like the builders.'

'I always deal with the builders. You never go near them! If you did, you'd probably end up killing them!'

'Yes, you're right, you do always deal with them – but I let you moan at me and get it off your chest.'

'I can do that on the phone – they do have phone reception in Lambourne, don't they?'

'And what about Freddie?'

'What about Freddie?'

'You know what about Freddie! He knocked you over!'

'He didn't do it on purpose!'

'I know he didn't but that's not the point. I can't just disappear when he's obviously going through a difficult stage of development, even if you weren't eight months pregnant. What sort of a husband and father do you think I am?'

He looked so indignant that Molly could not help but giggle.

'Darling! No one is suggesting you are not a good husband or father, least of all me, but you're also a Consulting Detective. It's what you do. And you haven't had a really interesting case for ages. You need to take this one.'

'It's not that interesting – a Four, at the most.'

'Then it won't take you long to solve it,' Molly cajoled, curling in to his side again and relishing how he automatically moulded his body around hers. 'You could be there and back in a couple of days. I'd hardly know you were gone.'

'Are you saying you wouldn't miss me?' he murmured, into her hair.

'I always miss you when you're not here,' she replied, barely above a whisper, tilting her chin to press her lips to his, 'but I would never come between you and The Work.'

'I suppose I could ask Mrs Hudson if she would come and stay, if it was only for a couple of nights…'

'I thought she was away at her sister's?'

'Oh, is she? She was at home yesterday. I heard the television.'

'She leaves it on a timer, to deter burglars,' Molly explained. 'And the lights, too.'

'Ah, that's why she hasn't been washing up my empties.'

'Oh, Sherlock! You don't still leave all your dirty mugs lying around, do you?

'She loves cleaning up after me! It's her 'raison d'etre'. She would be really upset if I did the washing up myself.'

Molly tutted and shook her head. He was incorrigible.

'What if I ask Marie to stay a bit later, just until I've put the boys to bed? Would that be acceptable?' she suggested.

'I suppose it would be alright, for a couple of nights,' he conceded.

'That's settled then. Tell your godfather you'll take the case.'

'Don't call him that, please,' Sherlock huffed.

_The first words Molly's had said, as soon as they were alone together that evening, had been,_

_'What's he like?'_

_Sherlock had rolled his eyes and replied,_

_'He's an idiot.'_

_He had then gone on to relate a few vague, childhood recollections of the man who, after years of absence, was suddenly claiming some special connection with his convenient godson, the famous detective._

_Although Sherlock had declined to take the case, Lord Hadfield had insisted he give it some more thought._

_'Dear boy, you are the only person who can solve this mystery. The police, the Jockey Club and the BHA have all drawn a blank. You are my last and only hope.'_

_Sherlock had given the man a disdainful look._

_'It's obviously the stable lad – the horse whisperer, as you refer to him,' he had declared. 'He clearly has some means of controlling the horse's behaviour.'_

_Lord Hadfield had shaken his head._

_'That was everyone's first thought but, if you were to meet the lad – talk to him – you would see that there is no way he would be involved in anything underhand. He is above reproach.'_

_'He could be being coerced, could he not?' was Sherlock's tight-lipped reply._

_'Not coerced, no,' the Marquis insisted, 'but perhaps duped….You really need to meet him, to see for yourself. And soon! Time is of the essence. The race is only days away.'_

_Raising an imperious hand to staunch the man's verbal flow, Sherlock replied,_

_'It's out of the question. My wife is due to give birth in a month. I couldn't possibly leave London at the moment. Mycroft should have made that clear.'_

_'Oh, he mentioned something of the sort but birthing is women's business, isn't it? Seems to me, you've already made your contribution to the enterprise,' the man sniggered, lewdly._

_Nothing he had said or done that morning had done anything to improve Lord Hadfield's status in Sherlock's opinion._

'Alright, 'the client', then,' Molly acknowledged. 'Tell the client you'll take the case.'

Sherlock was off on another tack.

'Perhaps I don't need to go there….' he mused.

He leaned to one side, abruptly, and reached for his mobile phone, in his trouser pocket. Taking it out, he scrolled through his Address Book and speed dialled a number.

'You're not thinking of sending John, are you? He can't go gallivanting off to Lambourne. He's got a regular job to go to!'

'More's the pity,' Sherlock grumbled. 'It's at times like these that I long for the old days.'

Molly shot him a wounded look and gave him a semi-serious slap on the shoulder but the party he had called had answered so he was too distracted to notice.

'Lord Hadfield….'

'Please, Sherlock, we're practically family. Call me Edward,' the Marquis exhorted down the line.

Ignoring this request, Sherlock went straight to the point.

'Do you have any video footage of the lad with the horse, preferably at the races?'

'I have film footage of all the horse's races, ever since we bought him and a few short clips taken at the yard and on the gallops.'

'Good. Send them to me – all of them – preferably by email but otherwise by currier. I must have them by noon tomorrow.'

'Are you taking the case, then?' The Marquis sounded thrilled.

'I'll let you know when I've seen the video footage.'

Sherlock cut the connection and put his phone down on the coffee table, turning to Molly.

'We might already have all the evidence we need,' he grinned, looking very self-satisfied.

ooOoo

Having seen Molly and Freddie off to St Bart's and taken William to school, the next day, Sherlock took a cab to Baker Street, picking up a carton of milk from the corner shop, on the way. With no Mrs Hudson to stock his fridge with essentials, he was forced to take care of it himself. As he approached the door to 221, a cycle courier stopped at the curb and met him on the threshold, clutching a package.

'That will be for me,' he advised the man.

'And you are?'

'Sherlock Holmes,' he replied, through gritted teeth.

'Do you have any i.d.?' the cyclist asked, sticking annoyingly to protocol.

'I have the key to this door. Will that do?' was Sherlock's response, teamed with a withering glare.

The cyclist toyed with the idea of insisting on further proof that this man was who he claimed to be but took heed of the warning look and waited whilst Sherlock unlocked the front door, then handed over the package, in exchange for a scribbled, indecipherable signature. The detective took the package and stepped through the door, stooping to pick up the mail from the floor before back-heeling the door closed behind him.

A quick shuffle through the letters found that only one was addressed to him. The rest – mostly junk mail but a couple of bills – he left on the hall table for his landlady's return. He then continued on up the stairs to his sitting room, using his key to gain admittance. Since he no longer resided at 221B, he had made a habit of locking the flat when he left it. Mrs H had her own key, anyway.

He passed through the sitting room, straight into the kitchen and put the milk into the fridge, giving a quick glance over the trays of samples he was keeping in there. He would have a proper look at them, later. He flicked on the kettle then returned to the sitting room, removing his coat as he went and tossing it over the back of John's chair, along with his scarf.

Sitting down in his chair, he put the letter on the side table and tore open the package the cycle courier had brought. It contained three dvd's, each bearing the label: 'Chateau d'Or' and a from/to date, counting back three years. He was momentarily reminded of the files Molly had made of their son, William, during his enforced absence, and presented to him, on his return. It seemed like a century ago and, at the same time, only yesterday.

Standing up and crossing to his desk, he unlocked the top drawer and took out his laptop, plugging it in and switched it on. Whilst it was booting up, he returned to the kitchen and made himself a mug of instant coffee, which he brought back to the sitting room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, opening the disc drive on the side of the laptop and fitting the first dvd into place. Resting his elbows on the desk top, he folded his fingers together and settled down to watch the videos.

ooOoo

**I seem to be averaging a chapter a week, at the moment - which is frustratingly slow - but I hope you can bear with me!**

**Sincere thanks for all your reviews, favs and follows! **


	6. Gold Chapter 5

**The plot thickens, I hope!**

**Chapter Five**

Molly dropped Freddie at the crèche, where he ran off, cheerfully, to join the other children. She made her way to the Path Lab, via the staff locker room, where she left her coat and bag and put on her white lab coat – a specially designed 'maternity' one, that accommodated her 'bump'. Once at her desk, she checked her day's schedule.

St. Bart's was a teaching hospital and every department was involved in the training of post-graduate medical students and qualified staff looking to specialise in a particular branch of medicine. Part of Molly's duties, as a senior pathologist in the department, was the mentoring of junior staff members. This included observation and assessment of their work. Today, she was due to observe a colleague carrying out a post mortem and assess their competence.

Molly loved this aspect of her job. It was very satisfying to pass on her knowledge and experience to others who had chosen Pathology as a specialism and, since at the present time she was not permitted to carry out PM's herself, because of her pregnancy, it provided an opportunity to participate – albeit vicariously – in what was for her the most compelling side of the business. The PM she was to observe was due to begin at ten o'clock so she would spend the intervening time dealing with some less exciting but rather necessary paperwork.

She had barely begun this task when the lab door opened and the department head entered, accompanied by a young woman, whom Molly correctly deduced was her locum. The HoD was obviously showing the locum around, judging from his commentary on the various activities that went on in different sections of the department. Molly observed them, surreptitiously, from under her eyebrows, secretly hoping that her boss would not include her in the tour. But her luck was out.

'Ah, Molly, sorry to disturb but might I introduce you to your replacement?' the HoD called from across the room.

She raised her head with what she hoped was a welcoming smile and turned to greet the new member of staff.

'Molly, Amanda; Amanda, Molly,' the head man intoned.

The two women shook hands, Molly noting the rather tight smile the other woman gave her.

'I've explained to Amanda that you will be showing her the ropes, while we still have the benefit of your services,' the HoD continued. 'Molly is one of our most experienced and valued members of staff,' he went on, turning to address the visitor, 'so you could not be in better hands.'

'I'll try to make your induction as painless as possible,' Molly assured the girl, with a warm smile. 'It's always tough starting at a new place, with so much to take in all at once.'

'Oh, I'm sure I'll pick things up easily. I'm a quick study,' the locum declared, with a self-satisfied smirk.

'Oh,' Molly replied, a little nonplussed by the other woman's cockiness. 'That's good, then.'

As the HoD and the new girl moved on to the next location, Molly watched them leave, with a slight sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hoped it was just nerves that had made the locum come across so cock-sure. Otherwise, her job could be made rather difficult. Amanda was due to start work the next day, so not long to wait to find out.

ooOoo

The consulting detective had been watching the videos all morning. The horse ran seven times, in the first season, eight times in the second and, so far, six times in the current season. There was a lot of footage to watch.

Sherlock had been to the races a few times in his life – mostly to the amateur point to point meetings that his mother had helped to organise, as Secretary of the local hunt – but the protocols were pretty similar for both the professional and amateur branches of the sport.

Prior to saddling, the horses would be led around the pre-parade ring by their lad or lass. The purpose of this was to get the animals warmed up prior to the race but it also gave members of the public an opportunity to see how the runners moved, as well as giving clues as to their temperaments.

A horse that jogged or fussed, tossed its head or flashed its tail was using up energy that it should be saving for the race. But a horse that walked with a lowered head and a tucked in tail could be indicating that there wasn't much energy to save. Ideally, they should stride out, with a long, even but forward-going pace and look around with interest but not alarm. This was indicative of a fit, calm animal that was up to the job, ready to run his or her race.

About half an hour before each race was due to start, the participating horses would be saddled. At professional race meetings, this was generally done in saddling boxes, which were three-sided structures, left open to the front so that the procedure of saddling could be viewed. Again, this could give the public an insight into the animal's temperament. If a horse stood quietly while being saddled, that was a good sign. If it was fractious or began to sweat, that was generally bad – but not always. For some horses, it was normal to sweat up before a race. The trick was to know each one's individual traits. That was why some race-goers studied 'form' – the history of each horse.

Once saddled, the horses would be led into the parade ring, by their handlers, and walked around until the signal was given for jockeys to mount. The race-going public could stand around the outside of the ring, viewing the runners and reading their race cards, which gave an overview of each animal's 'form' from previous races. This was intended to help them choose which beast to back.

Once the signal was given to mount, the jockeys would be given a leg up onto their rides and then the horses would be led from the parade ring onto the course, where they would be released, to canter down to the start. Before some of the bigger, more high-status races, they might parade in front of the stand, before cantering down to the start.

Whichever was the case, while the horses were being led, the handlers were in charge of them. When - and only when - the animals were released, the jockeys took over that control. This was an important point, Sherlock knew, because it meant that the handler – in this case the horse whisperer – could have a direct influence on the horse's behaviour right up until that moment. So this was where Sherlock focused his attention.

Not all the video clips included footage of the pre-parade ring or saddling enclosure but they all showed the horses in the parade ring and cantering down to the start. As he watched the reams and reams of video footage, he looked closely for any sort of interaction between the handler and the horse.

ooOoo

The PM that Molly observed was fairly run of the mill. The patient – an elderly woman – had died suddenly and alone, in her own home but no foul play was suspected. The PM confirmed that an undiagnosed aortic stenosis was the cause of death. The junior pathologist carried out a very efficient procedure and was able to answer Molly's qualifying questions very accurately, showing a thorough understanding of the deceased person's medical condition. It was all entirely satisfactory.

Returning to her laboratory, just before lunch, she fished her mobile out of her lab coat pocket and switched it back on, having turned it off for the duration of the PM. She saw she had a missed call and a voice mail from the carpenter who was due, that very day, to begin fitting their bespoke kitchen in the new house. Molly listened to the voice mail, asking her to ring back as soon as possible, and she frowned. She hoped it was not anything too serious.

'Oh, Mrs Holmes, thank you so much for your prompt reply,' the carpenter greeted her.

'My pleasure, Mr Ross. Is there a problem?' she asked, anxiously.

'Well, Mrs Holmes, I don't quite know how to put this,' Mr Ross began, only adding to Molly's concern.

'Please, Mr Ross, whatever it is, just say it,' she urged.

The man took a deep breath, then said,

'It's the kitchen, madam. It's all wrong.'

This did nothing to clarify the situation.

'I'm sorry, Mr Ross, you need to be more specific. In what way is the kitchen all wrong?'

'In every way, madam. The water pipes, the gas, the electric sockets, they're all in the wrong place. The builders must have misread the plans. Everything is skewed. I can't fit the kitchen as per the original design. Nothing matches up.'

Molly was momentarily speechless, her mind racing, as she tried to make sense of what the carpenter described. All the service points fitted in the wrong place? How could that have happened? She had viewed all the plans herself. How was it possible for anyone to misinterpret them?

'Are you there, Mrs Holmes?' came Mr Ross's voice worried voice, breaking the 'stunning spell'.

'Yes, I'm here. Are you at the house now?'

'I am, madam. Or rather, I'm outside the house. I'm in my van,' the carpenter explained.

'Look, I'm at work at the moment but I will be home at around 5.30 this evening. I will go straight to the house and see for myself. Can I ring you after I've spoken to the builder?'

'I'd prefer it if I could meet you at the house, Mrs Holmes, and show you what I mean. No disrespect but it might not be immediately obvious, otherwise. I'm sorry.' He did sound genuinely apologetic.

'No, Mr Ross, I quite understand,' she assured him, 'I will be most grateful for your assistance, I'm sure.'

Molly closed the call and debated whether or not to ring the builder but decided she would rather be armed with some solid evidence before she confronted that particular individual. And, right now, it was lunch time and her light headedness and growling stomach were telling her that she needed to eat. And then she had a review to write on the PM she had just observed. With a monumental effort, she pushed the matter of her skewed kitchen to the back of her mind.

ooOoo

Back at 221B, Sherlock was sitting in his favourite chair, plucking absent-mindedly at the strings of his violin, mentally reviewing the video footage he had been watching all morning.

The first thing that became clear was that the word 'lad' was a generic term for any male member of stable staff, regardless of their age. The 'lad' in question looked to be in his early thirties – though an outdoor life might have had a pre-aging effect on his appearance.

The second thing he noticed was that, in every shot, the lad appeared to be talking, continuously. His lips never stopped moving, whether walking or standing still. And the horse appeared to be listening. Its ears flickered and swivelled towards the handler. Sherlock tried to lip read what the man was saying but he could not make out a single word. Perhaps he was speaking in a language other than English.

The third thing that struck him was that the lad seemed to ignore all the other persons – the trainer, the owner or the jockeys – involved with the horse. Neither did he ever look directly at the horse, for that matter, but focused on the middle distance or down at the floor.

The horse's attitude toward the human race was plain to see, particularly in the footage from the earlier races. The animal would lay back its ears and wrinkle its nose at everyone around it, shaking its head and lifting a leg, threateningly, when anyone except the lad touched it. But it frequently dipped its head and gently butted or nuzzled its handler's shoulder. There was clearly a bond between the man and the horse, but whether or not it would have been possible to exploit that bond, Sherlock was not sure.

When it came to the most recent races, beginning with the big Boxing Day meeting, the most notable change in procedure was that the horse suddenly had two handlers. The usual lad still led it up but a second person now walked on the off side of the horse. The next two races showed the second handler in attendance, too. This struck Sherlock as most peculiar, not least because it coincided with the decline in the horse's racing fortunes. He rubbed his thumb across his chin and pondered on this odd development. Why change a successful formula? If it wasn't broken, why fix it?

At the end of the third set of race day footage, which was professionally filmed by a TV company for broadcast to the public, Sherlock had found some amateur video clips taken at the yard and on the gallops. He had not viewed these yet, preferring to process the race day evidence first. But now he rose from his chair and went into the kitchen, to furnish himself with a fresh cup of coffee, then returned to his desk, pressed 'Play' on his laptop and settled back down to study them.

ooOoo

**A little Easter egg for my faithful readers! Happy Easter, everyone!**


	7. Gold Chapter 6

**I dedicate this latest chapter of 'Gold' to the lovely MapleLeafCameo for her birthday. Hope you are having a fab day, MLC!**

**Chapter Six**

Through monumental effort, Molly managed to keep her mind on her work until home time then, swapping her lab coat for her winter coat and collecting her bag, she made her way to the crèche and the Paddington Bear room. As she entered the room, Freddie slipped off his chair at the table where all the children were gathered, waiting to go home, and rushed towards her, throwing his arms around her legs and hugging her, saying,

'Solly, Mummy, solly. I vely solly,' over and over again.

Molly stroked his hair.

'Sorry, babe? Sorry for what? What have you got to be sorry about?' she asked, looking expectantly at the two attendant Nursery Nurses, hoping for an explanation. Cherie, one of the seemingly endless supply of cheerful young ladies who came from all over the world to care for the children of London – as nannies, au pairs and Nursery staff – came over to Molly, wearing an apologetic smile.

'Oh, Freddie had to spend some time on the Thinking Chair, today,' she began.

The Thinking Chair was the Paddington Bear group's equivalent of the Naughty Step.

'Oh, why was that?' asked Molly, anxiously.

The Nursery Nurse invited Molly to sit at a table nearby, which she did, pulling Freddie into her already 'occupied' lap, where he pressed himself against her, burying his face in her rather ample bosom. Cherie sat down, too, and rubbed her hands together a little anxiously, then said,

'There was a bit of a fracas over a toy, Mrs Holmes, and one of the other children got hit on the head.'

Molly gave a sharp gasp.

'She wasn't hurt badly,' Cherie was quick to reassure her, 'but we did feel that Freddie needed to take some time to think about what he'd done.'

'You mean, Freddie hit the other child with the toy?' she asked, shocked at the very thought.

'Yes, Mrs Holmes…well, he threw it, actually…at her head.'

'Oh, no,' Molly breathed.

'So he went on the Thinking Chair for two minutes – one minute for every year of his age, you understand – and then we asked him to say sorry, which he did. In fact, he's been saying sorry to everyone ever since,' the girl added, with a nervous laugh. 'He seems to have taken the restitution part very seriously,' she observed.

'And the other child is alright, you say?' Molly reiterated.

'Oh, yes, ma'am, she just has a little scratch and a bruise but we iced it straight away and had her checked out by Paediatrics. She's absolutely fine.'

Molly didn't know what else to say. It was clear that Freddie had been pretty traumatised by the whole affair, too, and he had 'done his time' in the Thinking Chair so she wasn't about to punish him again but she was concerned that her darling little diplomat had suddenly developed a short fuse and a penchant for aggression.

However, right now, she just wanted to get him home, so she apologised to the Nursery Nurse for any harm caused and accepted Freddie's outdoor clothes and little back pack from Cherie. As she shrugged her youngest son into his winter coat and outdoor shoes, he was uncharacteristically passive but he walked, holding her hand, to the buggy store and sat in the pushchair willingly enough, ready for the walk home. Before exiting the crèche, via the front door, Molly pulled out her mobile and tapped out a quick text to Sherlock.

'Come home now, please. Mx'

ooOoo

Sherlock had watched all the amateur video clips and spent some time in his Mind Palace, organising what he had observed. He was now watching a specific selection of clips for a second time.

The first of these, which must have been filmed not long after the horse arrived at the yard, showed the animal in his loose box, with both halves of the stable door closed, though he could still be seen, through the vertical bars that comprised the top half. Chateau d'Or stood at the back of the box, with his head in the corner. As the person holding the camera – or video phone, perhaps – approached the front of the box, the horse flashed his tail and hunched his back, uttering a low rumbling sound that was clearly a warning to stay away.

When the 'cameraman' continued to advance, the horse suddenly turned and charged toward the front of the box, ears flat back, teeth bared and eyes rolling. The camera retreated but the animal stood tall, head high, eyeing the person through the bars and tossing its head repeatedly, for at least a minute, before retreating once more to the back of its box and putting its face back in the corner.

Sherlock was curious to know how the 'lad' had even begun to form any kind of relationship with this animal. It would have been a brave soul who dared to open that door, let alone walk into the box. He noted that the beast wore a leather head collar – which, he imagined, made it easier to catch him. Even so, it would still be a very risky business. His question was answered, to some extent, by the next piece of amateur video footage he had bookmarked.

This piece of film was shot with a static camera, giving a view of the whole of the front of the loose box. The horse was in his corner, as before. Sherlock watched as the 'lad' walked into view, straight up to the stable door and opened the top half, pulling it right back and securing it in the open position. As he did this, the horse's head came up and he glared – yes, that was the only way to describe that look - over his shoulder at the intruder.

The lad then did something quite surprising. He stood in front of the door, with his back to the horse, put his hands in his pockets and began to talk. Or, rather, he began to move his mouth. If he was producing any sounds, Sherlock could not hear them. And _his_ attention was mostly focused on the beast. What he saw there was even more surprising.

The animal's glare softened, almost immediately, and he pricked his ears. Then he began to blow down his nostrils, which flared wide, giving him a much more benign appearance. The horse then began to lick its lips and make chewing movements with it's lower jaw. And, then, it lowered its head and, turning away from the back wall, began to walk toward the front of the box.

The 'lad' made no response at all. He just stood there, in front of the box, as this notoriously dangerous animal approached him from behind and…nudged his shoulder with its muzzle. Only then, when he felt the horse push against him, did the handler take his right hand out of his pocket and reach up toward the horse's head. The horse lifted that head and rested its jaw on the shoulder of the man, who began to pull and rub at its ear. The video clip ended, there, rather abruptly.

Sherlock checked the dates of the two clips. They were filmed only two days apart. So, either this man was a very fast worker or there had been some considerable work done prior to this date which had gone unrecorded. How annoying, thought Sherlock, at the lack of forethought.

It was as he was mulling over what had been recorded that his mobile phone text alert pinged and he fished it from his pocket, read the text from Molly and then jumped up from the desk. Snapping the lid of the lap top closed, he stuffed it in his drawer, which he locked, then snatched up his coat and exited the flat, pausing only to lock the sitting room door.

ooOoo

Molly turned into the crescent, pushing a very subdued Freddie in his buggy, and as she drew nearer to the 'work in progress' that was to be the family's new home, her pace slowed and her heart sank, proportionally. She was surprised but also grateful to note that the builder's van was absent from its normal position, right outside the new house. Mr Tillotson and his crew must have knocked off early, today. That suited her purposes.

She would need to speak to the builder and she was not relishing the thought but her meeting with the carpenter could now go ahead in private. And, as she approached the front gate to her current home, the carpenter's van turned into the road from the opposite end of the crescent and stopped outside the new house.

Since Freddie's little melt-down, earlier in the week, Molly had not visited the building site on her way home from work, in the interests of breaking her son of that particular habit. But once inside her home, domestic matters had taken priority, which had resulted in her not visiting the building site at all. The consequences of that lapse, she suspected, were about to become apparent.

But, right now, her biggest concern was her two year old son. She was in a quandary about whether or not to take him with her to meet with the carpenter or to leave him with Marie. Neither option appealed to her. Sherlock had texted to say he was on his way but she had not been able to explain to him the reason for her abrupt summoning. Some things just could not be said over the phone.

Molly made up her mind. She parked the buggy outside the gate to their flat and stooped down to say to Freddie,

'Just wait here a second, baby. I just need to speak to the man in that van.'

She hurried along the pavement, as Mr Ross opened his van door and climbed out.

'Oh, Mr Ross, I'm expecting my husband home any moment but I need to take my son into the flat and explain something to our nanny. Would you like to wait in the house?' she panted.

The carpenter gave her a benign smile.

'I can wait in my van, Mrs Holmes, thank you. I was just listening to Radio 3. I'll be perfectly fine,' he replied.

Molly thanked him and returned to her child, who had sat hunched down in his coat during her brief absence.

'Come on, sweetie,' she said, as she pushed him towards the communal front door.

Once inside their own flat, she unclipped Freddie's safety harness and he climbed out of the buggy and allowed her to remove his coat and shoes. His passivity was becoming a little alarming, now.

'Here we go, Freddie. Let's go and see William and Marie, shall we?' Molly said, brightly, and led him by the hand into the sitting room.

William jumped up from his usual position on the sofa and gave them both a broad smile

'Hello, Mummy. Hello, Freddie,' he greeted.

Freddie tottered towards his brother, flung his arms around his brother's chest and burst into tears.

'I solly, Willum, I wealy, wealy am!' the little boy sobbed, as William wrapped his sibling in a protective embrace and exchanged, with his mother, a look of stunned surprise.

ooOoo


	8. Gold Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It was upon this scene of domestic mayhem that Sherlock arrived, only moments later, charging in through the front door, having heard both his children bawling, fit to bust, from the moment he stepped from the cab. In the time it took to cover the ground between the pavement and the sitting room, he had imagined a dozen possible reasons for their distress – each one ten times worse than the one before. He skidded to a halt, on the Minton tiles, his eyes wild and staring, and took in the tableau of William and Freddie clinging to their nanny and mother, respectively, as the women endeavoured to comfort them.

'What's happened?' he gasped.

Molly looked up at him, with a harried expression, and replied,

'Oh, god! Everything! And all at the same time!'

The sudden appearance of his father seemed to bring William out of his fit of crying, especially when Sherlock plucked him out of the scrum with his big hands and hugged him to his chest before sitting on the sofa, next to Molly, who could now devote all her attention to Freddie. Marie withdrew to the kitchen and put on the kettle, for a much needed pot of tea.

With the noise levels much reduced, Molly was able to explain to Sherlock about the incident at the crèche and Freddie's rather extreme reaction to the Time Out procedure.

'I don't understand why he's taken it so much to heart,' she exclaimed. 'He's been on the Thinking Chair before. He knows the drill. Saying sorry has never been an issue before.'

Sherlock looked into the tear-stained face of his youngest son, nestled in his mother's arms – calmer, now, but still giving the occasional juddering sob – and pursed his lips, trying to read what was going on in the child's mind.

'Solly, Daddy,' the little chap whimpered.

Sherlock reached across and placed a comforting hand on the crown of Freddie's head.

'Apology accepted,' he said, with a gentle smile. 'We all forgive you – everyone,' he added, for good measure.

This seemed to placate the little boy and he reached out toward his father then scrambled from Molly's lap to Sherlock's and snuggled into the curve of his arm.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked his wife, who was still looking rather harassed.

'Yes, I think so. Thank you for coming so quickly,' she replied, taking his proffered hand. He gave her a stern look, which said 'Why wouldn't I?' but actually said,

'Just a random question. Do you know why the carpenter is sitting in his van outside the new house?'

'Oh, yes!' Molly exclaimed. 'I'd forgotten about the poor man. I need to go and speak to him. Will you be alright, here?'

'Let me go. You look as though you could use a rest,' he observed.

She smiled her thanks but shook her head.

'No, you stay with the boys. They look settled there. And maybe you can deduce Freddie, while I'm gone,' she replied. 'I won't be long.'

She leaned on his knee, to lever herself up off the sofa, and placed a soft kiss on his brow then turned to Marie – just arriving with the tea tray – and smiled her apologies.

'Duty first. I'll have mine with a shot of something, when I get back,' she joked, and exited the flat, en route to her appointment with the kitchen fitter.

Sherlock looked up at the nanny, who gave him a wry look, in return.

'Energiser Bunny Syndrome,' she observed and he nodded his agreement.

ooOoo

Mr Ross climbed out of his van as Molly approached along the pavement. He smiled at her and said absolutely nothing about being kept hanging around for half an hour, brushing Molly's apologies away with a wave of his hand.

'I have children of my own,' he declared, as though that explained everything. He followed Molly up the path to the front door, as she fished in her coat pocket for the house keys. However, as she reached out to push the key into the lock, the door moved inwards, offering no resistance.

'Oh, it's open,' she remarked. 'There must be someone still here.'

Pushing the door wide, Molly stepped inside the front hall and called out,

'Hello?'

There was no reply. The house was silent – no tell-tale sounds of drills or saws, no annoying radio, playing 70's pop music, the soundtrack of choice in the building trade, it would seem.

Molly looked at Mr Ross and shrugged, then checked the condition of the lock, on the inside of the door. It was fixed on the latch.

'Hello, Mr Tillotson!' she called again, walking into the sitting room.

'Shall I check upstairs?' the carpenter offered.

'If you wouldn't mind,' Molly accepted, gratefully, making her own way into the dining room and from there to the kitchen and the utility room, then downstairs to the basement, finding no one at all – just a collection of abandoned power tools and the usual debris associated with building refurbishment.

She returned to the front hall, just as Mr Ross came back down the main stairs.

'It's like the Marie Celeste, Mrs Holmes,' he quipped. 'Not a soul on board.'

Molly had already come to the conclusion that the builders had, in deed, left for the night and to the realisation that they had not secured the property before doing so, leaving the house and its contents vulnerable to any opportunist thief or squatter who might have happened along.

'Did you say anything to Mr Tillotson about the problems in the kitchen?' Molly asked, speculatively.

'No, madam. Well, I didn't speak to him, personally. There was a plasterer working in the room, at the time, and I did mention to him that the measurements seemed off but then I just came out and rang you. I suppose the lad might have said something.'

'Ok, well, never mind about that,' Molly resolved. 'Let's see what the problem is, shall we?'

Mr Ross nodded, pleased to be getting down to business at last, and led the way into the kitchen, taking a copy of his kitchen design form his inside pocket and unfolding it as he went.

The kitchen was bare of all furniture and fittings so the gas and water pipes were exposed, along the walls. The channels for the electrical circuits had been fitted to the walls and the plasterer had begun the process of plastering over them. The fuse boxes and plug sockets were ranged at intervals along the circuits and on spurs, at various heights on the walls, but the bare wires were sticking out of these, as the covers had not yet been fitted.

Mr Ross indicated the point where the circuits emerged, though the wall, from the Utility Room, where the fuse box had been located.

'You see here, Mrs Holmes. This is the starting point for the kitchen fittings. This is where I made my measurements from.'

He then referred to his plan, which showed the position of each of the kitchen units and appliances and the corresponding service outlets. The measurements were clearly written between each fixed point.

'So, here's your double base cupboard,' he explained, holding his arms wide apart next to the wall to indicate the width of the large cupboard, 'then the gap for your double Belfast sink and drainer.' He moved along the wall, to stand where the sink would be. 'Now, straight away, you can see that the hot and cold water pipes are in the wrong place.'

He took an extending tape measure form his pocket and pulled out the tape along the wall.

'See, the double base unit is 1200 mm and the Belfast is 1000 mm, so the pipes for the taps should be coming up here –' he indicated a point on the wall, '- but, look. They are coming up here.' The pipes were positioned about two inches short of where they should have been.

'Not only that,' he went on, 'the margin of error gets worse, the further you go round the walls. Whoever did the measuring and marked the sites for the utilities, they just weren't accurate. I don't know how they managed to make such a hash of it but they just didn't follow the measurements on the plan. So the units that I designed – well, they just won't fit in the spaces, now. They won't match up to the utilities.'

Molly stood, lost for wards, and stared at the wiring and plumbing that had all been fitted in the wrong places. After what seemed an age but was probably only a minute or two, she found her voice.

'So, short of ripping out all the wiring and pipework and starting again, what can be done about this?' she asked, as she quietly raged against the builder and his shoddy working practices.

'Well, you would be quite within your rights to make your man strip it out and start again. I mean, the error is his. He just hasn't followed the plan. And he would have to do it at his own expense, too,' the carpenter advised.

'Yes, but that would set us back weeks, wouldn't it?' she sighed.

'I'm afraid it would, Mrs Holmes. The only alternative would be to customise the kitchen cabinets so they would fit in around the hardware. I mean to say, you can't alter the size of the sink or your white goods. They are fixed. The only thing that can be adjusted is the woodwork. I haven't cut out all the timber for the framing, but I have made all the doors and the drawer fronts. If I had to change the dimensions, it would mean more than taking a bit off here and there. I might even have to remake most of them.'

Molly pursed her lips. She could see what the man meant. And the end result would be a major compromise. It would not be the kitchen that she and Sherlock had spent hours mulling over and discussing, planning and imagining in their new home. It would not be the kitchen they had pictured themselves in, sitting round the table as a family, for years to come.

'No, I'm not prepared to compromise. This was the builder's error – or whichever of his men did the measuring and marking out. He can put it right and at his own expense, too,' she concluded, with an emphatic nod.

Turning to the artisan, she said,

'I am so sorry you've been inconvenienced in this way, Mr Ross, and I'm deeply grateful to you for bringing this to my attention. But, obviously, I understand that you won't be able to work to your schedule…'

'Oh, don't you worry about that. I have other work I can be getting on with. But I will have to fit you in around other appointments, now, when the site is ready for me to come back,' the carpenter advised her.

'Well, that is to be expected, Mr Ross, and not your fault' Molly replied. 'Please leave this with me. I'll ring Mr Tillotson tonight – and ask him why he left without locking up!' she exclaimed. 'And that will be just for starters!'

ooOoo

Sherlock sat on the sofa with his boys. Marie, who was meeting her boyfriend for an early evening meal before going to the cinema, had left with Sherlock's assurance that he had the situation in hand. Freddie was quiet now but he was still clinging on to his father, tightly. This was so out of character for the normally self-assured little tyke.

Seeing his sons so distressed, when he arrived home earlier, had been...well, quite distressing. These children were entirely dependent on him and Molly for everything and the couple made a point of never missing an opportunity to let the boys know how well-loved and cherished they were – which was a far cry from his own upbringing – but they were still vulnerable to outside influences. What happened today had obviously upset Freddie deeply, had seriously undermined his sense of security.

William, who was the least assured of the two boys, had been shocked by his brother's uncharacteristic demeanour. But, now that Freddie had calmed down, the older boy had returned to his usual corner of the sofa and resumed watching his favourite wildlife programme. As he sat hugging his youngest son, Sherlock was reminded yet again of the huge responsibility of Parenthood.

He stroked the little boy's back and rested his cheek on the child's head, breathing in the scent of his hair.

'What is the matter, little man, hey?' he murmured. 'Can you tell me?'

He felt his son give a small movement of his head and then a little voice said,

'I nice boy. Daddy lubs me.'

'Yes, you are a nice boy. Of course, you are. Daddy loves you lots. And Mummy loves you and William does, too.'

Freddie cuddled in closer but didn't speak again.

So, had someone told him he wasn't a nice boy? If so, would that be enough to undermine his self-confidence so dramatically? Or was he just shocked by his own behaviour – throwing the toy in a fit of rage and hurting the other child? That was a possibility. It was so frustrating that Freddie was unable to explain why he was so affected by the incident. Perhaps it was all too raw. Maybe in the days to come he would find a way to explain his feelings.

One thing was for sure. With everything that was going on at the moment, there was no way he could go off to Lambourne, just to investigate a horse, no matter how intriguing the puzzle may be. He would email Lord Hadfield and tell him his thoughts on the matter but advise him that he would definitely not be taking the case.

Sherlock was roused from his thoughts by the sound of the oven timer beeping.

'Supper's ready,' he announced, rising to his feet and heading for the kitchen, taking William and Freddie with him.

ooOoo

Having said goodbye to Mr Ross, Molly eased herself down to sit on the bottom step of the main staircase and took out her mobile phone. She scrolled through the address book and speed dialled Mr Tillotson's number.

'Hello, Mrs Holmes! How can I help you?' came the chirpy greeting from the self-styled _bon viveur_ builder.

'Well, you could start by explaining why you left my house unsecured, when you knocked off early today,' she replied, acerbically.

'Sorry?'

'Well, that's something, I suppose, but not much of an explanation.'

'I don't understand, Mrs Holmes,' he mumbled, lamely.

'Oh, really? Which part – unsecured or knocked off early?'

There was a long pause and then the man said,

'Did my men not lock up after themselves, today?'

'They did not, Mr Tillotson. And do I take it that you weren't there to oversee them, at the close of business?'

'Er, no, not today. I – er – had to go to the bank, so I left a bit early myself.'

'Can I take it, then, that you didn't even know your men were doing a short shift?'

Mr T seemed stuck for words.

'I'll take that as a yes, then, shall I?' Molly was in full hormonal 'stroppy customer' mode, now. 'Well, Mr Tillotson, that's the least of your problems,' she declared.

When she arrived back in the family home, Molly found her husband serving supper, one-handed, whilst holding Freddie on his hip. William was already sitting at the table. Sherlock discerned a look of fierce determination, in her eye, tinged with a glint of self-satisfaction, and quirked an eyebrow, as she took their youngest from him and settled him on his booster cushion, at the table, then sat on the chair next to him.

'You've been a while. Take any prisoners?' he asked, cautiously.

'Tell you all about it later,' she replied and, smiling brightly, she turned her attention to her boys.

ooOoo

**The Muse is being elusive, at the moment, and no mistake, so apologies for the delayed update. Thank you for your patience.**


	9. Gold Chapter 8

**I have blatantly borrowed some Mofftiss Magic. Don't sue me!**

**Chapter Eight**

Over the next few days, Sherlock found himself inundated with a rash of rather quirky but not terribly taxing cases, which kept him and John both occupied and amused. The first of these was 'The Hollow Client.' He and his blogger arrived at 221B Baker Street to find a full set of clothes, including socks, shoes, shirt, tie and underwear, laid out on John's chair as though the wearer had simply melted, evaporated or otherwise disappeared from within them.

It didn't take Sherlock long to deduce that Mrs Turner, who was house-sitting whilst her friend was away, had turned over two pages of Mrs H's wall calendar instead of one, by mistake, and thought it was 1st April so had set up the prank as a joke. She rather gave the game away by standing at the foot of the stairs, giggling, and then trying to look innocent when Sherlock asked her if she had seen anyone coming to or from the flat that day.

The second was 'The Elephant in the Room.' Again, John and Sherlock arrived at the flat to discover a baby elephant standing in the sitting room, having relieved itself all over the ancient rug. A quick search of the Internet revealed that a baby elephant called Lucy had been stolen from a private zoo in Surrey. It later transpired that this had been a stunt for Rag Week, carried out by the students of the nearby University of London campus.

It soon became apparent that, although elephants are quite adept at climbing up stairs, they are not so good at descending them, due to the forward position of their centre of gravity. But, with the assistance of the London Fire Brigade's specialist Animal Rescue Unit and the employment of a portable crane, the young pachyderm was eventually removed through one of the front windows and returned to its home and mother. The students were obliged to pay for the whole operation, including the cleaning of the rug.

Last, and by no means least, was the case of 'The Poison Giant'. This was the most compelling case of all, since it involved a number of rather high-profile individuals being struck down by a very rare poison, only found in the plants grown in the Amazon Rain Forest. Fortunately, the poison was quickly identified by the Centre for Tropical Diseases, so no one actually died. But the means by which the victims were being injected with the poison was not immediately obvious, until Sherlock discovered a tiny barb at one of the crime scenes.

This struck quite a chord with the detective and the current edition of Time Out provided the vital information needed to close the case. A troupe of Brazilian clowns were currently performing at Olympia and staying at a hotel in Bayswater, close to where all the attacks had taken place. John and Sherlock staked out the roof of the hotel and caught the culprit in the act of targeting his next victim, with a blowpipe, as the innocent person strolled in a nearby park, below. After a short chase, the homicidal midget was floored by a well-timed rugby tackle from John, disarmed of his blowpipe and stock of poisonous thorns, and delivered to DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard, after which, the intrepid duo celebrated, as was their custom, with a meal at Angelo's.

Added to these more interesting cases were the usual round of unfaithful spouses, lost dogs and missing persons – most of which, Sherlock refused to even consider. Too boring.

However, despite all this activity, at every quiet moment the detective's thoughts returned to the mystery of 'The Mumbling Man and the Psychotic Racehorse'. He watched the videos, over and over, searching for anything that he might have missed. He knew it would be there, somewhere. He always missed something. It was his most frustrating trait.

Then, about a week after his first visit and just three days before the race itself, Lord Hadfield came to see his godson again, with a startling revelation. The man turned up at Baker Street, sweating and shaking but pale as a ghost, and blurted out,

'It was me! I placed the large bet!'

Sherlock, seated in his leather and chrome chair, simply steepled his fingers and fixed the man with a cold stare.

'I had deduced as much,' he confirmed. 'But, having done so, why then draw attention to the bet by coming to me? You might have known I would work it out, in the end.'

'You have no idea what is resting on this race!' the marquis squawked, ringing his hands in anxious desperation.

'Then why don't you tell me,' Sherlock suggested and, with in imperious wave of his hand, invited the other man to sit down and spill the beans.

'I have debts, dear boy, huge debts. Inheritance Tax, Wealth Tax, running costs and maintenance – you know what it's like, nowadays, with the landed gentry. We are property rich but cash poor. Most of us can barely keep our heads above water. Your brother is one of the lucky few….'

'I don't believe that, in Mycroft's case, luck has much to do with it, do you?' Sherlock interjected.

'No, probably not. Your brother is an astute business man and has managed your family's assets extremely well, ever since your p…since he came into his inheritance. I, on the other hand, have been a bit of a fool. But this horse and this race were going to be the answer to all my financial problems.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and refrained from voicing his opinion on the subject of gambling, especially on something as unpredictable as a horse race. He kept his own council and waited for the stupid man to go on.

'When Bridges came to me with the proposition to buy the horse, I was reluctant. Owning race horses is a very expensive hobby. One hardly ever makes any money from it. One should go into it with that in mind. And, at the time, I was thinking of selling the horse I already owned. But the trainer told me that this horse was special, that it was a sure thing, that we simply could not lose. And, up until Christmas, this was absolutely true.'

'But then the horse lost its form,' Sherlock filled in.

'In deed, he did and I went to Bridges and asked him what on earth was going on. But the man told me not to panic, that this was all part of the plan. He said that the horse's odds were too small – he was 5/1 favourite – but if he lost a few races, his odds would slide and the pay-out would be greater for the same stake.'

'And you believed him?'

'I did, at first, and even though the horse kept losing or being pulled up, I wasn't concerned and I even placed that big bet – anonymously, of course. I did it through an account I have in a false name - to hide it from my creditors, you understand.'

This was completely illegal but the man knew that. There was no point in Sherlock stating the obvious, so he said nothing.

'That was my first mistake,' the marquis groaned, then looked put out at Sherlock's bark of derision.

'Oh, alright, not my first mistake but perhaps my worst?'

The detective just raised his eyebrows but kept silent.

'That was when the BHA and the Jockey Club got involved. I should have realised it would attract their attention but, at the time, I wasn't thinking straight. However, when Bridges found out, he was really rather angry. He spoke to me in such a manner! I can't even begin to describe how downright rude he was!'

'I think I can imagine,' Sherlock assured him.

'He said I had put the whole venture at risk and he wanted to scratch the horse from the race, lay low for a while and then come back again, next year, with a new campaign. But, you see, Sherlock, I can't wait until next year. By this time next year, I could be destitute. I could have lost everything. The horse has to run and it has to win!'

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and shook his head, holding up a hand to silence the other man.

'I really don't understand. If the horse's loss of form was intentional, why ask me to find out why the horse had lost his form? Surely, you already know the answer to that question?'

'I know why the horse has lost his form but I don't know how,' Lord Hadfield exclaimed. 'And it wasn't supposed to go on for this long. The horse was supposed to have a couple of bad runs – enough to sew the seed of doubt about his invulnerability - and then come back to form, just in time for the big event. But that hasn't happened.'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, not sure what the marquis expected of him.

'I fear that Bridges has double-crossed me. I believe he is going to let the horse lose, deliberately. If I can prove that he is throwing the race, I could ruin him. He would lose his licence for race fixing – he could lose it now, since he has let the horse lose three times already – but only if I, or rather you, can discover how he's doing it. That is why I came to you.'

The marquis sat back in the chair, looking every inch the desperate man he was, and wiped his sweaty brow with a trembling hand.

'This is why I am imploring you, Sherlock, to go there – to the yard – and find out what they are doing to that horse to stop it performing on the track, that doesn't show up in urine or blood tests. Please, I'm begging you.'

Sherlock looked at the man, feeling no sympathy, what so ever, for the situation which he had, undoubtedly, brought upon himself. But he was still intrigued. He really did want to know how it was being done.

'I would need a cover story,' he said, at last.

Lord Hadfield's face lit up like that of a child on Christmas Morning.

'So, you'll do it?' he squeaked.

'I could be a journalist, doing a story on the horse. That would get me in and give me 'access all areas' but you would have to clear that with the trainer. I doubt he would let me in if I just turned up at the door.'

'No problem! He's still my horse and I still pay the bills. And, if Bridges refuses, I'll threaten to take the horse away. He won't like that. That horse is still a champion in the making,' Hadfield declared.

'Alright,' Sherlock said, standing up to indicate that the meeting was over. 'You get that ball rolling. Tell him I represent the Scandinavian racing magazine, _Galoppmagasinet. _It covers the sport, world-wide, from a life-style perspective. Tell him I've been commissioned to write an article about the build up to a major race – you know, all the behind-the-scenes stuff that goes into preparing a horse for the big event - and then the event itself.' He was on a bit of a roll, now, and proving that he had already given this eventuality a great deal of thought.

'What if he decides to check your story?' the other man asked, suddenly looking doubtful.

'He'll find I check out!' Sherlock replied, confidently. Mycroft would see to that.

'I want full access to every aspect of the horse's life, for two whole days, so I will need over-night accommodation, on site,' he added.

'And what shall I call you? He might recognise your real name, from the papers. He might even recognise you!' Lord Hadfield seemed to be having second thoughts.

Sherlock gave him a look of utter contempt.

'I have no doubt that he would recognise Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, so I will not be Sherlock Holmes. Tell him I am Lars Sigerson and that I will be there at nine a.m., tomorrow.'

ooOoo

**Golly! Two updates in two days! Dare I suggest the Muse is back...? No! Mustn't tempt Fate!**


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